Street Rats
by tardisblues
Summary: A series of ficlets detailing the years Mako and Bolin spent on the streets.


**A/N: **The last thing I need is another story, but I've been itching to write some angst, so here it is. Enjoy! Or not.

* * *

><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

The sun was shining brightly when Mako found his mother's body.

"Mom," he panted, breathless from the sprint from the back yard to the kitchen door. He struggled to pull the door shut behind him, his back to the room. "Bolin wants some lychee juice but I told him that he couldn't have any unless he stopped bending clumps of dirt at my head." With one final grunt, he managed to shut the door, using the momentum to spin himself around.

His smile didn't fall so much as it evaporated right off his face, almost as though it had never existed in the first place.

She was sprawled across the kitchen floor, one arm pinned beneath her body while the rest of her limbs were cocked at bizarre, almost unnatural angles. Even as Mako hurried over to her side, dropping down to his knees and reaching for her helplessly, he knew deep down that this wasn't another one of her strange fainting spells. If the unyielding stiffness of her body or the chill of her skin against his own wasn't enough to convince him of the harsh reality he was pointedly ignoring, the stillness of her chest and the glassy, but empty look in her eyes was all the proof he needed.

Yet he persisted, using what little strength remained in his body to push her shoulder until he managed to roll her onto her back. Limbs flopping lifelessly, Mako saw that her mouth was agape, a cruel mockery of the good humored and kind hearted woman who had loved him and his brother so unconditionally, so selflessly…

_Bolin. _

The thought of his younger brother made Mako sick to his stomach. After all, he was only six years old. How would he – how _could_ Mako explain this when he didn't even understand it himself. While he was familiar with the concepts of death and loss, Mako couldn't rationalize this. He couldn't make heads from tails of the whys or the complete lack of feeling, the depthless void that he felt creeping up within him. Young though he may have been, Mako could recall crying at his father's funeral, his hand tucked in his mother's, who cradled a sleeping Bolin to her chest. He remembered the feel of the wind against his cheeks as it chilled the tracks left by his tears; he remembered the way his mother placed a warm hand on the back of his neck and drew him towards his, telling him it would be all right as he sobbed.

But now he could hardly muster the strength to keep himself upright, much less shed tears at the thought of – of the idea that she was - _dead_.

The weight of the word and the connotations it carried was enough to make the bile surge up the back his throat, burning and effectively numbing his senses as it came up. Scrambling away from her on his hands and knees, Mako vomited, but he didn't cry. He didn't sob because he couldn't remember what could possibly evoke such a reaction. He couldn't remember what it meant to hurt or why someone would laugh. He couldn't remember what anything felt like except for the searing scorch of his vomit and the way the grain of the wood flooring felt against the palms of his hands as his stomach roiled and he heaved, his muscles stretching and straining.

It wasn't until he heard Bolin struggling with the back door, loudly complaining about the very apparent lack of lychee juice in his cup, that Mako remembered himself. He averted his eyes from her body as he pushed himself to his feet. There was a purpose in his step as he made for the door, needlessly throwing his weight against it. Even if Bolin was strong enough to get it open on his own (he wasn't), it was a relief to have the unyielding support underneath his body, which felt drained and weak.

Bolin banged his fist on the door. "Hey, what is this? Let me in!"

"Have you cleaned up your toys?"

"No."

Squeezing his eyes shut tightly, Mako pressed his forehead against the door, praying to the Spirits that he could be strong for just a little longer. "Then go pick them up. That's the rule. You know that."

"But I don't want to clean them up!" The door shuddered as Bolin kicked it. "I want lychee juice! Let me in!"

Mako tried to picture his brother's scrunched up face, but all he saw was his mother's wide green eyes and how lifeless they were. His throat seared, whether from the remnants of bile or from emotion, he wasn't sure, but he clenched his fists and bit the inside of his cheek. "Go clean up your mess and I'll bring some out to you, okay?"

"No, I don't want you to bring it to me, I want to come inside and –"

"_Bolin_!" Mako was startled by the assertiveness in his own voice. It was contrary to everything he felt – or thought he felt. He was growing more confused and more tired by the minute. Taking Bolin's silence as acquiescence, a soft sigh fell from his lips. His feet scrambling for purchase, Mako forced his shoulder into the door and pushed himself upright. "Just…go pick up your toys, okay?"

"Okay, Mako," murmured Bolin, just loud enough that Mako could hear him through the thick wood of the door.

Mako strained his ears for the sound of Bolin's retreat, which, thankfully, he punctuated with many vicious kicks and gripes about how unfair the world was. Shutting his eyes again, Mako did his best to ignore the burning in his chest as he realized just how true his brother's words were. There was no justice in the world and even if there was, it certainly was not kind.

* * *

><p>They buried her on a Tuesday morning.<p>

It was a quiet, but quaint ceremony, and there was scarcely a dry eye amongst the mourners.

Save for one.

* * *

><p>As he blew out the candles on his birthday cake two weeks later, Mako finally cried.<p>

He was ten years old.


End file.
